‘Why would they want to come back again?’ said Norris. ‘Matthews is dead and buried.’
‘They want him re-interred after a Christian funeral,’ said Nyman. ‘Give him a proper send off, if you like. I just thought I’d inform you because the father may want to come and ask you a few questions about his son. And perhaps you might like to be there when the time comes to re-inter the body?’
Norris hesitated. The man must be joking! This was the last thing he wanted.
‘Unfortunately,’ said Norris, ‘I’m about to leave the country on business. I would have been there but my hands are tied.’
‘Well, it’ll take a while to organise anyway,’ said Nyman. ‘I told him he’ll have to jump through a few official hoops, so to speak. You may be back home again by that time.’
‘Probably,’ Norris conceded, although he was thinking,
not bloody likely
.
‘Shall I set up a meeting then, sir?’
‘Yes, you do that,’ said Norris. ‘Contact my secretary. She has my diary.’ As he replaced the receiver, he became aware of the letter still in his hand. It came from his father’s solicitors. Norris read it twice before he fully digested the contents. Everything had just gone from bad to worse.
The solicitor was reminding him that John was about to come into his inheritance from his grandfather. The letter concluded by saying:
As a result of the agreement, the accumulated funds will pass into the Finley estate when John reaches his twenty-fifth birthday. I cannot help wonder why, even though she was in communication with your late father (the late Mr Edward Finley wrote a letter dictated and sent from this firm), Grace Follett has never contacted this office.
Norris lowered himself into his chair. His father had written to Grace? Good God, what on earth did he say to her? And why the hell hadn’t Grace ever told him?
His dreams of a balcony conquest suddenly evaporated. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’
The soles of her shoes squeaked noisily as Grace walked alongthe hospital corridors and every step seemed a mile long. She met a few people coming in the opposite direction, but she made no eye contact. She was beginning to feel slightly ridiculous with a wilting bunch of flowers in her hand. They were from her mother’s garden. The last couple of roses and some Michaelmas daisies. She had thought her mother would enjoy them but now the garden posy seemed inadequate. Her mother deserved better.
These past few months had been cathartic for both of them. They started a little awkwardly but as time went on and Freda became more dependent, they found a friendship together that they both enjoyed.
She reached Room 6 and pushed the door open slowly. Her mother was lying flat in the bed with her eyes closed. Her hair was down. It lay like silver clouds all over the pillow. Grace had never seen it like that before. Her mother always wore it scraped back in a tight bun, but it was beautiful. If it wasn’t for the colour, it could have been the hair of a young woman. She looked so small, so fragile. Her skin was like parchment, her hands limp by her side.
‘Mum,’ Grace said quietly. ‘Mum, it’s me.’
Freda Follett opened her eyes and her face lit up. ‘I knew you would come one last time. I just knew it …’ Her voice trailed and Grace saw her eyes filling with tears.
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ she said quietly. She sat in the chair beside the bed and reached for her hand. Her mother tried to pull herself up but the effort was too much.
‘Rest, Mum. Don’t get up.’
‘I’ve never been much for talking,’ Freda said, ‘but I’ve enjoyed our time together.’
Grace was cut to the quick. She had never heard her mother say anything even remotely like that before. Her whole life, Grace had always felt as if she could never please her mother.
Freda reached up and touched her daughter’s face then let her hand drop to the bed. Grace reached for it and held it firmly. ‘Are you in pain?’
Freda shook her head. ‘I think I don’t have much time,’ she said, squeezing Grace’s fingers lightly. ‘Our secret is still safe?’
Grace nodded. ‘It’s still safe, Mum.’ Grace fumbled for a handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘He left you some money, you know.’
Grace was puzzled, but she let her go on talking. She’s rambling, she thought. Old people do that.
‘The solicitor told me.’
‘Who left me some money?’
‘Old man Finley.’
Grace stared at her mother in shocked surprise. John’s grandfather had died just days after he was born.
‘He left you money so that you could keep your baby.’
The shock made Grace rise to her feet. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
Her mother closed her eyes and pursed her lips together in anguish. ‘Now you’re angry with me.’
Too right she was angry, but Grace realised that her mother had something important to say and if she didn’t listen now, she would never hear it. The hospital was very strict with visiting hours. They had told her to come even though it was way past eight o’clock, so Freda’s life must be coming to an end. Before the morning came, she would probably be meeting her maker. This was no time for playing games. Grace sat back down and took the old lady’s hand again. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she said gently. ‘It was a surprise, that’s all. Tell me. Whatever you want to tell me I won’t be angry. I promise.’
‘The solicitor wrote to you, Grace, but I thought when John went to Mr Finley it was better to let things lie. The boy needed a mother and a father.’ Freda became agitated. ‘They said if you asked for the money, he would have you declared unfit and the baby would be sent to an orphanage.’
Grace was appalled. ‘Who said that?’
‘Mr Norris.’ Freda’s voice became a whisper. ‘I was scared, Grace, and you were so full of grief, that if I let them take you, I might never have seen you again.’
‘Oh Mum …’ Grace began.
Freda put her bony finger to her lips and shook her head. ‘Shhh,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t be upset. It’s all right. It was for the best, wasn’t it? The baby went to a good home, didn’t he? No one knows. Our secret is safe.’
There was a sound outside in the corridor and her mother came to life. ‘Quick, my bag, my bag.’ She leaned towards the cupboard beside her bed and tried to open the door.
Grace rushed around to help her. ‘It’s OK, Mum. I’ll get it.’
The old familiar bag was right at the back behind her cardigan and a book. Grace placed it reverently on the bed beside her. Freda worked the clasp eagerly until it opened and then she fell exhausted against the pillows. Grace couldn’t bear it.
‘What is it, Mum? What are you looking for?’
‘The letter,’ she gasped.
Grace tipped the contents of the bag onto the bed. Lipstick, a comb, a battered purse, some pictures of her father as a young man, some till receipts, assorted pens and miscellaneous items tumbled onto the counterpane. Her mother pushed her hand through them quickly and picked up a small, tired-looking en-velope. She handed it to Grace with a conspiratorial look.
‘Take it back now,’ she said, her voice coming in ragged gasps. ‘Go and see them. Waiting for you.’
Grace glanced at the envelope but still didn’t fully understand. All she knew was her mother’s sense of urgency. She pushed it into her pocket. Together they put everything back in the bag and Grace placed it back in the bedside locker.
It was then that Freda noticed the garden posy. ‘Oh they’re lovely!’ she cried.
‘Mum …’ Grace began again, but instinctively she knew the time for conversation was over. Her mother’s eyes closed and she relaxed on the pillow.
The letter burned in Grace’s pocket. Eventually she took it out.
The envelope was limp with age and dog-eared from much handling. Grace stared at her own name and address written in a beautiful copperplate hand. She fingered the old-fashioned stamp, King George V, as she squinted to see the postmark: 1924, the year John was born.
Silently she let the letter slide out of its envelope and glanced back at her mother. She still had her eyes closed. Grace looked back at the piece of paper in her hand but she could only bear to read the heading. Clifton and Sons Solicitors.
She sat there for a full fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes with a piece of paper which could have changed her life forever had she known of its existence. As she slid it back into the envelope her mother let out a long sigh and Grace knew she was gone.
How long she sat there looking at her mother’s face, she never knew, but when Grace came to herself, her cheeks were wet with tears. She had never felt quite like this before. Not even when Michael died. Her mother, the one who had brought her into the world, was gone. As old as she was, Grace felt like an orphan and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. She began to shake and before long her body was racked by silent sobs. She had pressed her handkerchief to her mouth in a vain attempt to keep all the sound in. Thank God that she and Freda had made their peace. Grace blew her nose. ‘Oh Mum, I love you. I’m going to miss you.’ Something made her look up and she noticed something quite remarkable. All the lines and wrinkles in her mother’s face had gone. She looked as if she was sleeping and, more importantly, she was young again.
Grace stood up, leaned over and kissed her mother’s forehead. ‘Good night Mum,’ she said, her throat still tight with emotion. ‘See you in the morning.’ She paused for a moment to wipe her eyes and blow her nose and then, with head held high, she left the room to find one of the nursing staff.
When Rita came home, she was overjoyed to see Emilio was back. He looked pale and he’d lost weight, but he was as handsome as ever dressed in a white shirt, open at the neck and with a red and white spotted kerchief around his neck. Liliana was away visiting her sister so Salvatore let them use his sitting room.
‘I’ve missed you,’ Rita said shyly. ‘Are you all right?’
Emilio had made some tea and they sat at the small table by the window. Rita would have far rather been sitting with him on thesofa.
‘Fine.’
You don’t look it my darling, she thought. You look as if you could do with looking after. ‘Where did you go?’
He didn’t answer but instead stared out of the window. Rita was suddenly concerned. ‘Emilio, what is it?’
‘I have to go back.’
‘Back, where?’
‘To Italy.’ He hung his head and his hair flopped onto his forehead.
Rita was horrified. If he went back to Italy, she would never see him again. Her eyes filled with tears. How could she bear it?
‘Surely there must be a way of staying here. I don’t understand. Who says you must go back?’
‘The government,’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion. She placed her trembling hand over his. Rita had never heard of such a thing. The British always seemed so welcoming to foreigners. Hadn’t the
Empire Windrush
docked in Tilbury with nearly 500 passengers from Jamaica just last June? Nobody made a fuss about them and the passengers had even been offered cheap fares.
‘I have no ties, no family. They say I must go, Rita.’
‘There’s no restriction on members of the British Empire,’ she said stoutly.
‘Italy doesn’t belong to the British Empire,’ he pointed out with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘And we lost the war.’
‘But you have Salvatore,’ said Rita. ‘Can’t you tell them he’s your uncle?’
Emilio shrugged again. ‘Is not enough.’
Rita caught her breath. ‘But what if you had a wife?’ she began cautiously, not wanting to appear too fast. Her heart was beginning to thump. ‘What if you were married? Would you be allowed to stay then?’
He looked up with a puzzled expression. ‘I have no time to find a wife,’ he smiled.
Oh Emilio, Emilio, she thought, look at me! But he resumed his stare out of the window. Rita chewed her bottom lip anxiously. ‘I’ll do it for you if you like?’
‘What?’
‘Marry you so that you can stay.’ Her heart was pounding in her chest and she dared hardly breathe.
His hand covered hers. ‘You would really do this for me?’
Her eyes danced with excitement but she still had the presence of mind to nod modestly.
‘But you are too young, Rita,’ he said. ‘Your mama, she sayno.’
‘There is a way,’ said Rita, suddenly feeling the wonderful romance of it all. ‘We could always go to Gretna Green.’
Salvatore was overjoyed when they told him. Later, much later when Rita had gone back home, the two men shared a bottle of wine and a plate of spaghetti together.
‘
Hai dovuto persuaderla?
’ (Did you have to persuade her?)
‘
È stato facile.
’ (It was easy.)
Salvatore gripped his nephew’s arm. ‘
Ti prendi cura di lei. È una buona ragazza
.’ (You do right by her. She’s a good girl.)
Back at her mother’s place, Rita found some letters on the mat. One was from Bob. ‘On my way home at last,’ he wrote. ‘I hope you will come dancing with me.’
Rita stuffed the letter back into the envelope. ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ she said aloud. ‘By the time you come through that door, I shall be a married woman.’
Bonnie was happy. She’d spent the afternoon wrapping Christmas presents for the children in the nursery as well as some for Shirley. The girls had decorated the nursery the night before and now paper chains hung across the rooms and all the Disney cartoons festooned the windows: Dumbo, Bambi, Pinocchio, Snow White and Mickey Mouse. She wasn’t very good at cartooning, but with a picture in front of her, Bonnie found that she could make a reasonable stab at a likeness.
Shirley enjoyed painting too. Bonnie had several of her splodge paintings hanging in her bedroom. Most of them were on a corkboard she had bought from Woolworth’s but the others were Sellotaped directly onto the walls. They looked a lot better than the holes where previous pictures had been and one effort in particular covered a fairly large place where the plaster had fallen away.
Tonight Bonnie had been invited to go out with some people from the local church when they went carol singing in the streets. She was looking forward to that and for the first time since she’d left home, Bonnie felt she was going to enjoy the festive season.